````Take that to end thy agony
`````Henry V=
````Our happiness is at the height
`````Richard III=
|The Somalis, as I have explained before, are almost entirely a nation
of nomads, and the only settled villages or townships are those run by
Sheiks or Mullahs, or whatever name they elect to be known by. These men
are Mahomedans with an eye to business, religious, influential, knowing
the value of education, and are often quite learned. We marched into the
vicinity of some hundreds of huts, and sent Clarence on ahead to present
our compliments to the Mullah and express our desire to call on him.
We also sent along a consignment of gifts likely to appeal to a learned
man--a Koran, a _tusba_, and a couple of tobes, for even a Mullah has
to have clothes, anyway, in Somaliland. I don’t know whether our sending
presents first was correct, or whether we should have waited for the
Mullah to weigh in. We debated the point, and decided any one with an
extra sensible mind would think a bird in the hand worth two in the bush
any day of the week. This village, if our men’s talk was to be believed,
was full of Mullahs, not one Mullah. We concluded that all the wise and
religious-minded men must have banded together to live as monks do, save
that celibacy was not the fashion.
The Mullah lost no time in sending us return offerings in the shape of
three sheep, and _harns_ and _harns_ of milk. He also asked us to go and
see him in his _karta_, as owing to some infirmity he could not wait on
us. All this was very correct and nice. I should think this Mullah had
been trained in the way he should go.
We put in an appearance that same afternoon, hardly able to push
through the crowds that lined up in readiness for our advent. The Mullah
received us at the door of his hut, a smiling, urbane personage. I saw
no sign of infirmity, but of course I couldn’t ask what it was. The
Mullah would be about fifty years old, so far as I can judge, and he had
the tiniest hands and feet. His face was full of intelligence, his eyes
deep set and alert. In colour he was of the Arab shade, and some
Somalis are almost black. He was exceedingly gracious, and received our
credentials, or passport so to speak, with serene smiles. He barely read
them. I suppose he could. All the Mullahs can read Arabic.
Myriads of children--our hosts we concluded--sat and squatted and lay
about the earth-floor, two circles of them. Cecily says they went three
times round, but no, _two_ large circles.
The Mullah asked a great many questions about England--who we were when
we were at home? how it was two women could come so far to shoot
lion, and why we wanted to?--to all of which we replied as clearly
and comprehensively as we could through Clarence. Then more personal
questions were asked. Were we married? “Say no, Clarence.”
“No,” said the stolid shikâri.
The Mullah reflected a little. Didn’t we think we ought to be? A
dreadful flick on the raw this. If we married how many husbands are we
allowed? I instructed Clarence to say that is not so much how many you
are allowed as how many you can get. Cecily broke in and said that it
was enough to puzzle any Mullah, and that Clarence must explain that one
husband at a time is what English women are permitted, but it is very
difficult in the present overcrowded state of the marriage market
to obtain even one’s rightful allowance, hence our lonely forlorn
condition. The Mullah looked really sorry for us. He said he would like
to give us another sheep, and that he did not think he would care to
live in England, but he approved of the English he had seen. “Best
people I see.” We thanked him, salaamed, and left. We were then followed
by a pattering crowd who dodged in front of us, peering into our faces,
and when we smiled, smiled back crying “Mot! Mot! io Mot!” over and
over. It was quite a triumphal progress.
At our own camp we found the place invaded by every invalid of the
Mullah settlement waiting in serried rows for us to cure them. Why
every English person, or European rather, is supposed to possess
this marvellous in-born skill in medicine I cannot tell. Some of the
complaints presented I had never heard of, much less seen, and even
our learned tome of a medical work failed to identify many. It was very
pathetic, as we were so helpless. The poor things regarded the book as
some saviour come to succour them.
There was enough occupation before us to keep a doctor busy for
weeks, that much we could see. We only dared venture on the simplest
plain-sailing cases, and even if we had used up our entire stock of
medicine and remedies required for our own use it would have been a
drop in the ocean of trouble here. We gave presents as a consoler to the
worst of the invalids, and then, lest they should all return again on
the morrow, we folded our tents like the Arabs and silently stole away.
One of our own men required our attention after this. He showed all the
symptoms of ptomaine poisoning, and ferreting into the matter I found
that--well fed as he was--he had gone after the contents of a tin of
beef I had my doubts of, and which I threw away over the zareba fence,
and had consumed the stuff. I was exceedingly vexed, because I had told
all the men standing about at the time that the tin was bad and would
poison any one. Is it not odd that people--especially men--always want
and like that which is denied them? If we could only get at the truth
of it, I expect we should find that in taking the forbidden fruit in
the Garden of Eden Eve did it at the express wish of Adam who wanted it
badly, and had not the moral courage to take it for himself. By the way,
it may not be generally known that quite a lot of learned people claim
that Eden existed in Somaliland.
To return to the subject in hand again. Just imagine a well-looked-after
camel-man deliberately going and making a meal of doubtful meat just
because it was forbidden him. Ah, well! is it not said that “the dearest
pleasure of the delicately nurtured is a furtive meal of tripe and
onions”? Perhaps our follower took the beef as a surreptitious dish of
that kind. The analogy may seem a little “out,” but it is there if you
look for it.
One day, somewhere about this time, I was fortunate enough to witness a
great and splendid sight, a battle to the death between two bull oryx.
I had been lunching on sandwiches of their kind--alas! their poor
brother!--and was resting awhile on the verge of a thick bit of country,
a natural clearing with thick thorn cover around. I kept very silent--I
was in fact very sleepy--when I heard the war challenge of some genus
buck, imperious and ringing, and not far away. It was replied to
instantly. Again it sounded louder and nearer. I raised myself and
looked about. From out the dense brushwood, but a few hundred yards
away, and from opposite sides, sprang a fine up-standing oryx. Crash!
And the great bulls were at each other. Clawing with hoofs and teeth and
rapier horns. Then backwards they would sidle, and each taking a flying
start would come together with a sickening crash, and all the while each
tried every possible tactic to drive the merciless horns home. I held my
breath with excitement, as in theirs I was permitted to creep almost up
to the panting, foam-flecked warriors. I could have shot both, but as I
was strong so was I merciful. It was a great and glorious struggle,
and the laurels should be to the victor. For quite a long time it was
impossible to tell which was the stronger, but at last the right-hand
buck--for, oddly enough, though they circled round each other
each always charged from the side from which he commenced to give
battle--began to show signs of tremendous stress, and the telling blows
of his opponent wore him down more and more. No longer was he able
to parry the lunges of his infuriated foe, who, like lightning, took
instant advantage of the on-coming weakness of the stricken buck, and
rushing in on a flying charge like a whirlwind, inserted his rapier-like
horns into his enemy’s side and gored him unmercifully.
This is where I came in. I would not shoot the victor, for he had won
his battle in fair fight. It was the survival of the fittest. As he
shook his dripping horns and looked at me with blood-shot eyes and
frothing muzzle, I saw he was a youngster in the height of his prime,
and that the stricken buck was old. The victor and I looked at one
another, and I threw my rifle up. A charge from a maddened oryx would be
no simple thing. But I did not want to take his life unless compelled. A
soft, low whinnying noise in the bush: he was off, and I was forgotten.
_Cherchez la femme_, even in oryx land! I walked up to the dying buck,
and Clarence, who had seen the whole thing also, hurried up and asked me
if he might “hallal” quickly and save the meat. A Somali could not
be expected to appreciate sentimental reasons, so I did not urge mercy
towards the utterly vanquished, mostly because the kindest course was to
put the beast out of pain. His horns were the horns of a mighty fighter,
and his shield bore the cuts and indents of many battles. But his day
was over, and his harem passed to a new lord.
The ground was all ploughed up with the scuffle.
The head of the dead oryx was poor. It looked old, and was moreover the
worse for strenuous living, being in parts hairless. As I now had better
heads, I took his shield merely, as a souvenir of the great fight. It is
now a little tea-tray from which I peacefully drink tea.
[Illustration: 0143]
We struck camp next day, and trekked along the borders of the Ogaden
country. That night we had a camel looted. A camel seems a bit of an
undertaking to run off with, as more often than not he won’t move when
you want him to. I suspect there was some collusion on the part of the
camel-man in charge, but I never could bring it home to one of them.
Our clothes were now in a shocking state of repair, or disrepair. What
with wait-a-bit thorns, drenching rain, torrid sun, wriggling on the
ground, kneeling and grovelling about, we were the most awful scarecrows
you ever saw. But we were intensely happy. That is the wonder of
the wild. One forgets clothes--and that is much for a woman to
say--newspapers and letters. What was going on in the world we knew not,
nor did we care. I cannot conceive the heart of man desiring more than
was ours just then. The glories of the jungle were all for us; every
dawn brought something new, and everywhere we could trace the wonders of
the world in which we lived: each morning come on romance in footprints,
tragedy in massed spoor, “sermons in stones, and good in everything.”
It is not to be thought that all things went smoothly. In a big caravan
of the kind such an idyllic condition of things would be well-nigh
impossible. There were the most awkward disagreeablenesses and
unpleasantnesses of all sorts to bother us. I hate sporting books full
of grumbling and tales of discomforts. Nobody asked the sportsman to
undertake the job, and nobody cares if he “chucks” it. Therefore why
write reams about miseries when there are so many things to make up for
them? No life is all _couleur de rose_; but we can make light of the
darkness, “walk in its gardens, and forget the rain.”
Ostrich spoor was now all about, but they are the most difficult of all
things to come on at close quarters. I stalked odd birds, birds in twos,
birds in trios for hours, but never came within any sort of range.
All the natural history as told to me in childish days about the ostrich
burying its head in the sand and imagining itself hidden I found very
much of a nursery romance. The ostrich takes no chances, and, so far
from burying its head, has to thank the length of its neck for much of
its safety.
After days of wriggling about on the flanks of ostrich, in the front and
in the rear, I confided my chagrin to Clarence. He said he had _a Plan_.
I told him I was delighted to know that, and would he unfold it at once?
It seems very ridiculous, but just because I could not bag an ostrich
the bird seemed to me the be-all and end-all of the trip. I am a woman
all over, it seems.
Well, Clarence’s idea was this: Ostrich never eat at night; therefore,
if you persistently chase the _same_ ostrich for two or three days
consecutively it follows, of course, that the bird must give in sooner
or later--sooner, Clarence hoped--from want of food and exhaustion.
Or, if a hen ostrich could only be procured--just as though I was not
prepared to welcome her--it would not be long before I should have a
near view of a cock bird, who would come along with a view to a possible
introduction to Miss Ostrich. She was to be tied to a thorn bush behind
which I should be ensconced. It did not seem at all a sporting thing to
do. Love’s young dream should not be made a potent factor in a deadly
business of the kind. Love spells life, not death.
The other idea did not commend itself to me either with any gusto. I
had no mind myself to go riding after ostrich as though it were a trophy
beyond price. Neither did I want to detail any of the men for the job.
It was just as well we did not trouble for--such are the chances of
hunting, when the position of things may change from success to failure,
from failure to success in the blinking of an eyelid--I suddenly came
on two birds--two grey hens--one afternoon as I was returning from a
fruitless expedition after a lion that must have left the neighbourhood
a week before. One hen was picking the new grass that was everywhere
springing up, the other was playing sentry. And very well she did it
too, marching up and down with head erect and alert eyes. They had
not winded us. We were covered by fairly dense wait-a-bit. The birds,
however, were entirely out of range. I was now on foot, and flung myself
down, as had Clarence. We then raised ourselves sufficiently to cut as
silently as we could a bunch of the awful prickly grass, all mixed with
thorn spikes, and though it scratched me like fun, and I heard my poor
garments ripping away, I took the screen from Clarence and holding it
well in front of me wriggled to the edge of the open country in front
of me. I did feel absurd, and how was I to get within range of those
knowing birds, all encumbered as I was too, with my weapon and my
wait-a-bit? It _was_ wait-a-bit! I took half an hour to crawl a few
yards. But the birds still went on picking the grass in the peculiar way
they have, taking turns at sentry-go. They had great doubts about this
small tuft that had grown up in a day, mushroom-like, and it was only
when sentry turned and paced the other way I could progress at all. The
bird who was doing the eating did not trouble itself so much. At last,
wonderful to relate, I really got within range, and then it was a
toss up which bird to choose. I really considered it an _embarras de
richesse_, and told myself that both belonged to me! Sentry presented
the best mark, and as she turned and came towards me I drew a bead on
her breast and fired. She fell--plop! But her companion simply took a
sort of flying run, very quaint to watch, and vanished in the instant
on the horizon. This is, I know, a prodigious fuss about shooting an
ostrich; but I found them harder to come on and account for than
the king of beasts himself. Some of my ostrich found its way to the
stock-pot, and a portion was roasted. We were quite unable to get
our teeth through it. Cecily said I had undoubtedly shot the oldest
inhabitant. The stewed ostrich, after being done to rags, was eatable,
but no great treat.
The next day I was taking a breathing space in between moments of
stalking an aoul with peculiarly turned horns, a regular freak amongst
aoul, when I suddenly heard that weirdest of sounds, the hunting call
of a hyæna when the sun is high. I got up and gazed about, and at some
distance there flashed into my vision a disabled buck, I could not then
tell of what variety, haltingly cantering and lurching along. The hyæna
was on his track, running low, but covering the distance between them
magically quickly. In shorter time than I can write it the hyæna sprang
on to the haunches of the spent buck, and down, down it sank, with head
thrown back, into a pitiful heap, the fierce wolf-like creature worrying
it at once. I threw up my rifle, in the excitement I had been allowed to
approach very near, and the hyæna paid toll. He was a mangy brute of the
spotted variety, but the strength of his teeth was amazing. He hung on
to a piece of the aoul long after death. I kept his head, but the skin
was useless. The buck was an old aoul, evidently in shocking condition
and run down generally. He was dead, or I would have put him out of his
misery. I took the head for the sake of the horns. These measured on the
curves seventeen and a half inches.
Just here Clarence when out spooring, came on an ostrich nest just about
to hatch out, and nothing would do but we must go then and there to see
it. We penetrated some wait-a-bit and then came on the nest with seven
eggs therein. Next we hid ourselves, waited awhile, and had the pleasure
of seeing the father ostrich return to the domicile. I don’t know where
the mother could be. We never sighted her. Perhaps she was an ostrich
suffragette and had to attend a meeting. We did not want to go too
near the nest, or go too often, but we could not help being very much
interested. Our consideration was quite unnecessary. The eggs hatched
out, the broken eggs told the tale, but some prowling jackal or hungry
hyæna had called when the parents were away and annexed the entire
seven. Housekeeping in the jungle has its drawbacks. It must be really
difficult to raise a family.
It was quite strange that Clarence, who was a born shikari, versed in
the ways of the wild, and master of the jungle folk, was not at all what
I call a safe shot. I never felt that I could depend on his rifle if
we got into a tight hole. My uncle says times must have changed, for in
their days together Clarence was very reliable with a rifle. But I
don’t see why a man, so often out in the jungle, should go off as a
shot--rather, one would think, would he improve, like grouse, with
keeping.
We did a most amusing stalk one day here. On a Sunday--I know it was a
Sunday, because ever since we lost the only almanac we had with us we
notched a stick, Crusoe fashion--Cecily and I decided to part company
and go our ways alone, and taking our ponies rode off in opposite
directions. After some time I tethered my steed and left him for the
syce to attend to, and then I mooned along slowly until I must have
traversed a mile or so. I lay down awhile, and then a bunch of aoul
crossed my front, a Speke’s Gazelle with them but not of them, for he
held himself well aloof, and seemed by his very bearing to say he was
only with them by accident. The aoul moved on, but the Speke began to
feed, and I realised then he carried a head worth having, and I must
take it an’ I could. I was out of range, and it meant a careful stalk.
I hoped he would not notice me if I wriggled to the next clump of
wait-a-bit, which showed the crassness of my ignorance! Of course, he
knew something was afoot, and I had to lie still for ages ere I deceived
him into passivity again. The ground was like a razor’s edge; small
stones and sharp-edged flints cut into my poor knees, but I crept nearer
by twenty paces. The sunlight danced again on his shining coat, and all
his thoughts were hemmed in now by a little patch of green grass he had
come on. He consumed this while I squirmed from point to point, and then
with a whisk of his tail he was off again. A brisk run brought him in
view once more, and all this time my presence had never really irked
him. Aha! I pretty well had him. A few paces more when, wonder of
wonders, he saw some danger signal in quite another quarter and dashed
away, this time with no halting. He was gone for ever. I rose and
stretched myself, when a distant bush of wait-a-bit yielded up another
figure, doing the same thing. It was Cecily. And we had both been
stalking the self-same buck for hours--spoiling the other’s chances
every time. We laughed and laughed, for who could help it?
On our walk back to camp we found the vacated hole of a wart-hog. They
dig these entrenchments for themselves, and back into them so that they
face any danger that may come--a most wise and sound policy. The hole
only just admits piggy; there is not one inch to spare. Living as they
do on roots, it can well be understood that the flesh is really much
more appetising than that of the home-grown porker. Their only drawback
as a welcome addition to our larder was this refusal of the Somalis to
have anything to do with pig. I am quite sure they ran this phase of
Mahomedanism for all it was worth, thereby saving themselves labour, for
I never could see any very strong leanings towards any other teachings
of their religion.